


Three LMB Mailing List Metafics

by Bracketyjack



Category: BUJOLD Lois McMaster - Works, Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Metafiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-16
Updated: 2012-09-16
Packaged: 2017-11-14 09:04:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bracketyjack/pseuds/Bracketyjack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lord Auditor Vorkosigan is landed with a Murder on the Vorient Express, later makes Gregor very Rank Happy, and later still finds the first problem altogether unresolved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three LMB Mailing List Metafics

**Author's Note:**

> These were written for the Official LMB mailing-list, the first at a time of escalating flame, the second after Lois offered (another) explanation of Barrayaran ranks, and the third when a Vorkosigan Vashnoi of flame reasserted itself. There are some endnotes explaining listbiz references.

**I: MURDER ON THE VORIENT EXPRESS**

 

"Wake up, my Lord!"

"Eh? Youwha?" Groggily Miles peered at ... Roic, leaning over him.

"His Majesty is on the secure comconsole, my Lord. You need to wake up. Here's coffee."

Miles took the cup, gratefully swallowed a scalding mouthful, and gave the cup back to Roic as he struggled out of bed.

"What's up? Did Gregor say?"

"Auditorial business, milord. A tourist murder of some kind."

"Eh? Why does he have to wake me up for that?"

Roic maintained a tactful silence until Miles, now wrapped in a dressing-gown, reclaimed the coffee and began to totter towards his study.

"I'm not sure, my Lord, but it seems to have someone in a flap. A whole bunch of people have already been detained and are squawking like upset cats."

"Huh."

Arriving at the comconsole Miles sucked in the last of the coffee, handing the mug to Roic with a gestured request for more, and hit the accept. Despite the late hour Gregor was still in the uniform he had been wearing at the formal dinner the previous evening, and looked thoroughly irritated.

"Ah, Miles. I'm sorry to wake you but I want you to get up to the orbital transfer station right away and shake some sense into everyone. In brief, two Terran tourists on a Vorsmythe liner have been murdered, under rather peculiar circumstances. The liner had been chartered by a Terran group--a club of some kind, dedicated to some Terran author who writes adventures set here in the Imperium." He twitched an eyebrow. "Apparently I'm in them by name. You too. Which is why ImpSec keeps files. In any case, the members of the club were the only people on board, except for the captain and crew, so it looks like a falling-out of some kind."

By now the coffee had percolated sufficiently into Miles's system for his brain to work. "Um, very nasty, I'm sure, Gregor, but what needs an Auditorial presence?"

Gregor leaned back. "Good question. But events have ... spiralled, rather. The murders were peculiar -- one victim had multiple stab-wounds but all with different weapons, and according to the pathologists different wielders, the other was stifled with a --" he glanced down at something "-- pizza. Some sort of flat, doughy foodstuff, apparently. Completely strange. So Vorbohn's senior man on the orbital station sensibly locked the whole thing down and detained them all, while reaching for the fast-penta. But they're all galactics, Miles -- Terran citizens, and one at least is refusing to consent to fast-penta. The legality is clear enough but Vorbohn's man is only a Colonel."

"Ah." That at least made some sense. In Barrayaran space the tourists were subject to its laws and customs, but if galactics had to be fast-penta'd or otherwise enquired into forcibly ImpSec authorisation from Vorbarr Sultana was required. Even so ... he took a refilled coffee cup from Roic and quirked an enquiring eyebrow at Gregor.

"Then it transpired that the murder victim had been tagged by ImpSec as having tried to make contact with the People's Defence League." Miles almost spilled his coffee. "As had several of the suspects. Three others had tried to contact Boriz Vormoncrief. And both murder victims had petitioned for the release of Richars Vorrutyer, though what business it was of theirs is beyond me. There were also multiple requests to meet you, Ekaterin, Aral, Cordelia, Alys, Duv, and all the Koudelkas that ImpSec had automatically vetoed and filed under forget it, but that now seem rather more peculiar. Vorbohn's man sensibly referred the whole lot to Guy with a request for help or clear instructions, which Guy was considering when it further transpired that the victims had managed to get themselves declared _personae non gratae_ on Cetaganda and Komarr during previous stops on their tour."

Miles put down his coffee, the better to clutch his head in both hands. "That's ... impressive. For one journey."

"Isn't it? Guy's asking for details. Meanwhile, my Lord Auditor ..."

"Ack. Yes. Alright. I'm going."

"Good. And report sooner rather than later, please, especially if I shall need to make soothing or other noises at the Terran ambassador."

"Uh." Miles grunted agreement as Gregor's image vanished, and looked at Roic.

"Groundcar's ready when you are, my Lord."

Miles nodded, and went to dress in an auditorial suit. Someone was going to regret this little escapade. But unless there were any natural or induced allergies, fast-penta should sort out the guilty soon enough. As often, he gave fervent thanks for the truth-drug ; without it an investigation like this would be a nightmare, and his mood lightened from newly-woken cross to merely resigned. But as he pulled on his socks Gregor's words about the nature of the club the tourists belonged to finally registered and a look of real indignation crossed his face. _Books about me? We'll see about that._ It reminded him of a dream he'd had some months before -- a nightmare, really, in which some woman who claimed to have written him into existence had appeared and interviewed him for a publicity campaign. _Of all the impertinent ideas ..._

Pulling on his jacket and squaring his shoulders, he marched down to the groundcar.

 

* * *

 

**II: Rank Happy, or "Barrayarans!" said Cordelia (hiding a grin) when she heard the story ...**

 

Miles looked up from the latest _Imperial Gazette_ and frowned as Gregor more-or-less crawled through the door of his private quarters and slumped into an easy chair.

"What's up with you?"

"Ranks."

"What?"

"Ranks. Barrayaran ranks. All seven-hundred-and-three of them. Of which at least forty-two are 'captain'."

Miles groaned. "Vorfolse got his idiot proposal through, then?"

"Yup. Everyone decided it was a useful way of clogging up the reforms. Just as you predicted. So I am formally requested to appoint a committee of absolutely everyone to deliberate for years, spawn a million interservice fights, spin off the gods know what brawlings and mayhem, and achieve absolutely bugger all. All in the name of being more galactic."

"And rational. Don't forget more rational."

"No indeed. Vorfolse said that, repeatedly."

"He would."

Miles drummed his fingers for a moment, then looked up at Gregor with a quizzical expression.

"Do you actually _want_ to do anything about ranks, Gregor?"

"Not particularly. It all works well enough, and for all the galactics complain they never know if the captain they're talking to commands a ship, a company, a service brigade, ImpSec, or an ice-hockey team, they rather like it, really. It's quaint, and it helps them feel superior even though they know we'd thump them silly if it ever came to it."

"Plus we have spiffy uniforms, and really excellent shiny boots. You could extend the boots to all ranks. The tanners would be very happy." Miles grinned. "Tell you what, though -- I checked the terms of reference and the minutes from the last committee they set up to do this -- the one that produced the Poisoned Chicken plot and the Library Immolation -- and I found that Dorca didn't _have_ to appoint any of the members. He could have appointed anyone he wanted. And however many he wanted. He must have meant them to bog themselves down and try to kill one another so they had less time and energy to argue with him. Better chickens than Vorbarras sort of thing."

Gregor's eyebrows went up. "So what are you suggesting?"

"Well, the crucial reform votes on the defence subcommittee of the Council will be in, what, six months? Just before your birthday, yes? And just as I do, you have a little list -- or a not so little list -- of who your real opponents are among the Imperial Staff. So why don't you appoint to the, heh, Rank Committee every single one of those opponents' senior administrative colonels, half-colonels, quarter-colonels, group majors, majors, A flat majors, demi-majors, semi-demi-majors, and, for the regimental officers, their three most senior NCOs in each branch, and request and require them, in loud imperial capitals with multiple intimations of very severe displeasure and a surprisingly generous budget, to present to you, no later than your birthday, a complete history of our rank system since unification and a full analysis of the problem, with any unanimous recommendations they can reach for reform. In, of course, the traditionally printed and bound form appropriate for Imperial Enquiries. In all four languages. And signed in blood with their seals, as is required in law and custom. After which the subject will be Officially Closed for the duration of your reign. At the very least, the logistical capacities and energies of your opponents will be drained, while you get a chance to bang them all over the head at regular intervals by enquiring after their progress, and at best they'll completely incapacitate one another. Probably with pizzas, like that poor galactic tourist last year."

Miles looked brightly at his foster-brother, who was slowly beginning to grin back at him.

"And make Vorfolse the chair. He deserves it."

 

* * *

 

**III: Have His Vorcase**

 

With the formal letters of congratulation to the newly (and very unexpectedly) elected Speaker of Hassadar finally done, Miles was contemplating going to bed with some disfavour -- Ekaterin was away for the night visiting Hugo and Rosalie -- when the secure comconsole chimed. It also received a look of disfavour as he limped towards it : no call at this time of the evening was likely to be good news and of late the damned thing had never stopped chiming ; but that, alas, was what Lords Auditor were for. With luck it might be only a minion with a query, but to his surprise the face that appeared was Gregor's, looking ... bemused. *Uh oh ...* 

"Miles, I'm sorry to bother you so late but we have a puzzle."

"We do?" 

"I'm afraid so. Two of them, in fact, though seemingly related. You remember those tourist murders two years ago? The Terran writer's discussion club?" 

Miles stared and shuddered. "I'm not likely to forget, Gregor. That case was a nightmare." Besides the frightful, haunting expression on the face of the poor fellow ho'd been stifled with pizza-dough, Fast-Penta had proven no help at all. Even under the drug every club member had continued to argue, passionately, evidently so fiercely believing their own nonsense that they found it indistinguishable from truth. In the end, as victims and suspects were all Terran anyway, he'd had the lot of them deported -- and repatriated -- there under guard with a full record of events and a rather plaintive request for the relevant authorities to sort out their own. 

"Well, they're back. With more mayhem and absurdity." Gregor's fingers drummed. "From my point-of-view this all started a few days ago with an ImpSec report from Komarr, indicating that they had in custody several Terran agitators who'd been trying to stir things up in the domes." 

"What sort of things?" 

"The usual -- Barrayaran oppression, not being Betan enough, infamous imperial taxes." Unexpectedly Gregor smiled. "But all wrapped up in some antique Terran jargon that confused everyone. The report was copied to me via the Imperial Counsellor's office because the barful of Komarrans to whom they were making their pitch listened politely, took a vote, and called ImpSec direct. Laisa hasn't stopped laughing yet." 

Miles laughed too. "Have you sent it to Da?" Then he frowned. "But what's the puzzle, Gregor?" 

"In the first place, how they got dirtside, or even in a position to get dirtside, when all are listed as _personae non gratae_ by Auditorial order. Exactly. And in the second place, they're on Barrayar too. Or, at least, one of them is. And, once again, dead." 

Miles blinked and adopted his foster brother's most chilly cadence. "Elucidate, please."

 Gregor only half-smiled. "Thirty-six hours ago a body was discovered on the coast, near Vorharopolous Athena. To be precise, lodged on a rock called The Unseaworthy that is all but covered at high tide. Multiple stab wounds, just like that one on the liner. And the wounds not only _were_ still bleeding ; they still _are_. The body is in the local hospital morgue, and has so far leaked at least four times more blood than it could possibly contain. Despite which, a gene-ID revealed it to be the _same person_ as the one who was stifled with the pizza. Or a clone, presumably." He glanced down. "The travel documents said Anastasia Romanov. But ..." 

Miles rested his head in his hands. "But, indeed. And how did she get dirtside here?" 

"I have no idea, though I imagine a forged letter of marque from you probably played a part." Miles sat upright, glaring indignantly. "Also countersigned by the author of those books they discuss, though that's probably a forgery too." 

Miles went back to resting his head in his hands. "Gregor, have you _read_ any of those books?" 

"Great Ghu, no. Coping with reality is quite enough." A pause. "Should I?" 

Miles freed a hand for long enough to waggle it. "Maybe. Very good plots, if you ignore the names of the protagonists. And some uncomfortably shrewd guessing as well as really excellent one-liners. But if you take them as _history_ \-- which all those wretched club members do -- they're a veritable Ma Kosti recipe for misconceptions about us, mostly because of how much they don't say." 

"Oh? How so?" 

Miles shrugged. "Point-of-view, mostly. And a stylish but very aggravating habit of providing no more data than is immediately necessary. You wouldn't believe how many characters never even get names. Like ImpSec's ABC but applied to fiction." 

Gregor's eyebrows quirked. "Really?" 

"More like unreally. In any case, what am I supposed to do about it?" 

"Find out whatever's going on and stop it." 

Miles groaned. "Gregor, every one of those people was a gurning lunatic. Neither reason nor Fast-Penta made the least impression on any of them. And now they've got their pizza-dead cloning themselves and drowning Vorharopoulos Athena in claret." 

"Nevertheless, my Lord Auditor. I can't have mysterious agitators in the domes, nor ever-bleeding bodies on the seashore." 

"Alright, alright." Miles glared crossly. "But I warn you, if they still insist they _all_ know best about Barrayar when not one of them knows a damn thing, I shall use your Voice to request and require they _all_ have the full Barrayaran experience -- starting with Mad Yuri's scalp in Vorhartung Castle and ending with a six-month posting to Kyril Island. At Midwinter." 

Gregor waved a hand. "Fine by me, Miles. Just be sure to commend those Komarrans and the District Guard at Vorharopolous Athena." He frowned. "Do you think I should invite this author to Barrayar? So she can get the details right? And more, ah, thickly laid on?" 

"Oh ... yes." Miles breathed out slowly. "She'd get another six books out of it. And they _are_ rather good."

 

**Author's Note:**

> The People's Defence League is a label invoking one faction in long-running list arguments involving the plausibility, sensibility, and moralities of postulating a (very) dark Barrayar and (very) light Komarr.
> 
> Some listies have (very) strong views on the ethics of Fast-Penta as a judicial means of enquiry that are not easily comprehensible to other listies.
> 
> Some listies have (very) strong views on the putative guilt of Richars Vorrutyer in various regards, and on the ethics of supposing it in any of them.
> 
> One listie was once possessed of a vision of the List _tout court_ retiring to a cruise ship for an endless LoisCon, with many coloured drinks decorated with little umbrellas. Other listies, considering the proposition, believed discretion might be the better part of valour.
> 
> If a thread becomes enflamed or otherwise objectionable, pizza may be called, and if called thrice shall stifle all further contributions to that thread.
> 
> As part of the publicity campaign for _Cryoburn_ [Lois interviewed Miles](http://www.unclehugo.com/prod/ah-bujold-lois-more.php).
> 
> The Dreaded Barrayaran Ranks Thread, commonly raised by newcomers in a spirit of honest enquiry, is dreaded for good reason, and naval knowledge (wherewith the List is well supplied) does not help.
> 
> No List argument is ever done.
> 
> Some listies have a particular problem with one listie, all of whose minds are, it seems, unchangeable. The relevant disagreements include the relative darkness of Barrayar, lightness of Komarr, value of textev (and of its absence), helpfulness of Terran metaphor, and importance of distinguishing world-building fiction from real-world history.


End file.
